Between Two Worlds
by Saturnine Spiders
Summary: Rachel couldn't hate magic, because if she did, she would be hating her own sister. But, she could hate everything else.


**Title:** Between Two Worlds

 **Prompt(s):**

Home Alone for TQLFC

21 for Angel N Darkness's Are You Crazy Enough to Do It Challenge

Squib AU for TrueBeliever831 Ultimate AU Promptathon Challenge

 **Word Count:** 1,081

 **Beta:** I give huge thanks to Verity Grahams for helping me with my tenses and whatnot. She's great. I also want to thank the rest of the Ballycastle Bats as they helped beta-read my other one-shots.

 **A/N:** I've decided to write about the part in Home Alone where Kevin McCallister realized he was completely alone and that it wasn't all too fun as it was cut out to be.

* * *

 _June 30, 1971_

The house was empty, walls of dianthus and portraits of grimalkin encompassed me, the miasma of oatmeal filling the atmosphere. The tile was bitter cold, my feet bare, curling linoleum arms ensnaring my toes. Dried achromatic wisterias hung from askew pins, last years calendar posted on the refrigerator, the drip of aqua from the shiny brass tap into the washbasin. An oriental lamp painted with careening tom's lapping at sardine oil sat on the window seal, lucent daylight reflected off the dozen of pots and pans.

It was strange, hearing the dolorous cry of the teakettle and unharmonious rings of porcelain chimes. There wasn't the mandatory malgin from Mira or the crack of powder blue eggs as Mother cooks, it was placid and pleasant, and while I didn't detest it, I didn't like it either. It was strange. They were off in _her_ world. I wanted to hate it, but I couldn't. It was magic, with flying brooms and wands that turn stone to silver, a dream that Mira and I shared. Hers came true, but mine? It rests underneath a wilted core; once a budding orchid, the professor that came had said. I can't hate magic, if I did, that would be hating my own sister.

Mira with her sharp tongue, and Mira who sailed my cardboard ship as her own. Mira with her tender lullabies, and Mira who stood up for me when Mother called me fat. I wanted to hate her; she is everything I want to be, everything we wanted to be. Mother was smiling; red lips pulled upwards, fingers stroking black tresses. Mother never smiled at me; I was the doll she disregarded deep within her toy chest. Mother looked at me with shame, but I don't mind. I can hate Mother, but I can't hate magic.

The professor was old, with weedy eyes and purple polka-dotted robes. He had sat next to me, hands intertwined, blue eyes twinkling underneath the candle lights. Mira was bouncing in her chair, kicking my ankle, blubbering all over herself. Mother had been in the kitchen, making a cup of tea, her smile had never left her poisoned lips. The Professor chuckled as Mira squealed when he turned the table into a dirty pig, I could only sit there, watching as my once hopeless fantasy became just that, hopeless. He told me I couldn't have magic; I'm what they would call a Squib. I can hate him, but I can't hate magic.

Oatmeal is disgusting. It was emetic; I wanted to vomit, but it's all I could make with Mother gone. Oatmeal is plain, wet oats and cinnamon powder, apple tart and blue raspberries. It was always the same. Hogwarts wouldn't have oatmeal. They would serve blueberry crepes and honey-roasted bacon with green eggs and ham. It would be better than Mother's cooking, better than oatmeal. I can hate oatmeal, but I can't hate magic.

Mira asked me to come with before he arrived; _it'd be fun, Rachel_ , she said, _you can help me pick out what I need_. But, I couldn't have my own supplies. I couldn't wield a wand and turn a table into a hog; I couldn't mix flower petals and create love potions, and I couldn't make friends with unicorns and dragons. I had to sit at home and color cartoon animals an ugly brown. All the other colors were broken and lay in the trash; Hogwarts wouldn't have brown crayons, I'm sure. They would have peach and pineapple with splashes of mint and lemon green. The colors would bleed onto the wood tables, and the drawings would come to life. I can hate the color brown, but I can't hate magic.

I have to read myths and watch movies of vampires and werewolves, but Mira would meet the ancestors of Dracula and sweet siblings of Arthur Vines. She would know vampires hate the taste of certain blood-types and that some werewolves like the taste of muscles better than fat. Mira would come home during the summer and tell me how vampires eat garlic every Sunday, and that werewolves like to eat with silver forks and knives. Squibs don't know better; she would brag, real wizards told me so. I can hate myths and movies that lie, but I can't hate magic.

Mira would go to a school with mermaids as professors and toads as students. I would learn about the circumference of cantaloupes as she would learn about curses and potions. I would have to use poster boards for my projects as she would hunt fairies and pixies for hers. Hogwarts wouldn't teach algebra or force exercise on pre-teens. They would teach spells that turn water into blood and encourage students to befriend the forest creatures with dark eyes. Mira would ride broomsticks as I clean my homeroom with them. I can hate school, but I can't hate magic.

 _Rachel Rose Flower_ ; Mother said when I had accidentally spilled the tea on the professor's lap, _apologize right now!_ Mira had looked at me with shame as Mother always did then. Her lips were turned in a disgusted frown, eyes livid. I wanted to tell her I didn't mean to, but she had called me a liar before I could even open my mouth. I was blamed, and I was punished before I could even say anything. They wouldn't do that in Hogwarts. The walls and floors would have ears, and the paintings would have eyes that see in the dark of the night. Professors wouldn't call me a liar without proof. I can hate being called a liar, but I can't hate magic.

I would grow up with veins of green and eyes of stone as Mira would grow up with Mother's warm smile and calming appraise. I'd be ridiculed as she is put on her porcelain pedestal. I would sob as she smiles, and scream as she cries. I'd be alone when she forgets that I exist, and she'd be happy when I forget she exists. I will be bitter. I will be jealous. I will be alone. She will be happy. She will be cherished. She will not be forgotten.

I can't hate magic, but I can hate myself.


End file.
